Up Front by Emma Hart

Thanks to all of you who took the time to respond to my survey from last week. The look on my partner's face when he saw my inbox was well worth it. It seems to introduce a pleasant reciprocity: I write these columns for you, and now you write these columns for me.

And what perfect timing as we roll up to Valentine’s Day – without a doubt, the least romantic day of the year, designed to sell cards, make single people feel miserable, and strip relationships of any possibility for spontaneity. Yay.

The most romantic thing that ever happened to me was a completely wasted wino picking me pansies from the Floral Clock because he was so taken with my beautiful smile. People who've seen my face have no trouble believing he could barely stand. (The second most romantic thing was a trio of men waking me on Valentine's morning by singing 'Do You Want to Know a Secret' outside my bedroom window. This was so touching I slept with two of them.)

I mention this just to lay the groundwork for my own rather jaded point of view here. I'm not big on romance, and I'm not big on romance novels. Nevertheless, I struggle to believe that romantic novels and movies can do people actual harm. Stuff obligingly popped up this morning with a reasonable summary of the 'debate' that's been going on in the British papers lately. The basic premise is that romantic fiction creates a sense of false expectations that damages women's ability to form good relationships. The survey was to test the validity of my own response to this, which can be summed up thusly:

Bollocks it does.

Let's have a look at the experiment they used here:

To test the premise, 100 students were shown the John Cusack romcom Serendipity while another 100 watched a David Lynch flick.
In a questionnaire afterwards, the Serendipity viewers were much more likely to say they believed in fate and predestined love than the others.

That seems a reasonable comparison, right? A romcom and a David Lynch movie. They could have asked which group was more likely to say they believed in carnivorous typewriters too.

On to our own survey. The usual disclaimers about small numbers and the demographic distortions of the Public Address audience apply. (I'm just saying you're disproportionately samrt, kay?)

There was some pointed commonality in response. With only one exception, respondents said they started reading romance novels at twelve or thirteen. This seems to be an age when girls are having first crushes, first boyfriends, and are quite emotionally impressionable. Georgette Heyer was very popular, but so was Mills & Boon, and a couple of people mentioned the teen-marketed romances I read at that age: Sweet Dreams and Wildfire.

Our sample audience overwhelming said that they didn't think reading romance novels had affected their expectations of relationships, or 'correct' male and female behaviour. One common theme was a realisation that those ideals were there, without buying into them:

I think I was always pretty much aware that they didn't really represent the typical behaviour of actual real people. So although you still might daydream of someone sweeping you off your feet romantically, I didn't really believe it happened in real life.

…the men were always gorgeous, domineering, aristocratic creatures who never seemed to turn up around me. And neither did the beautiful heroines. Also, I'd been introduced to science fiction at the same impressionable age, so for every Spanish Don I read about a teleporting criminal mastermind or girl travelling in a asteroid, so the influences were very mixed

And indeed: if I could read science-fiction novels like you’d eat fistfuls of popcorn and still not expect to be serving on a spaceship next to impossibly handsome incredibly intelligent delightfully emotionally-retarded men, why shouldn’t the same be true for the girls reading the pink books?

People were, however, more likely to say they knew 'someone else' whose romance-reading was problematic:

My sister, however, is an avid reader of them still, and I think it *has* coloured her idea of relationships, which conflicts with her general pig-headedness about everything.

The scariest part is when during conversations she makes reference to situations that characters have been in, or occupations they do, as if they are real world people.

This could be a symptom of "I’m okay, you're a basket-case", or it may be that a small minority of people develop a problematic level of attachment to the literature.

Most people, however, seem to be perfectly capable of distinguishing fantasy from reality:

I have a lot of culturally expectations of what relationships should look like (especially at the dating/proposing/having a wedding phase of things) that bear no resemblance whatsoever to any relationship I have ever seen or participated in.

They should: being able to tell what's real and what's not is a pretty good measure of whether or not you're batshit crazy. Part of the appeal of fantasy is that it allows us to go beyond what we'd actually be prepared to do in real life – you can both desire something inside your head, and be aware that you wouldn't really want it if it offered. As evidence, I simply offer up Mr Darcy. "Yes honey, what I really want is for you to stand around being broody and arrogant. In britches."

Nevertheless, romance reading still comes with a high degree of stigma attached. About half of respondents said they were embarrassed about their romance reading habit, and others said that while they didn't feel any shame, they were aware that other people would think less of them if they knew. Self-service library issuing was spontaneously mentioned more than once.

So, in response to the contention that somehow Notting Hill is dangerous to the psyche in a way that, say, Die Hard 3 isn’t, a hearty flibble, and perhaps a protracted discussion about who you'd rather boff: Colin Firth or Hugh Grant.

As I think I've mentioned before, I love cricket. I'll watch anything cricket-related. Beach cricket, club cricket, kids in the park after school, whatever. When I'm old and my family are all dead, I'll be that weird woman always hanging around at strangers' games. "There's that crazy old cricket lady," people will say, "the one showing the inappropriate amount of cleavage."

When the kids were little, we used to take them to women's cricket games out at Lincoln. This was only partially to counter my son's idea that women couldn't play sport because "their lumps would get in the way". You could go and watch two international teams play, for free, while sitting on grass, with an actual picket fence and everything. In the gaps between overs, our daughter would get up and dance next to the speakers. She can't hear anything under 60dB, so the volume was perfect for her.

Right now, the White Ferns are playing the Southern Stars. This year's Rosebowl series is a Big Deal. According to Cricinfo;

One of the biggest years in women's cricket - if not the biggest year - begins with two giants of the game taking on each other in the Rose Bowl series.

The Women's World Cup kicks off in Australia in just over a month, so if one of these two top teams can get an edge over the other in the Rose Bowl, that's obviously going to tell. On top of that, the White Ferns haven't actually won the Rose Bowl since 1998.

So it's nice to see that Cricinfo knows the series is important. That article is the only way you can tell, because currently they're offering me live scores for an England-South Africa under-19 game. Radio Sport is talking about yachting, because currently there's no sport on. Sky Sport is showing highlights of the Cycling Tour Down Under and a replay of Middlesborough vs Blackburn Rovers.

For the first game in the series, I managed to track down live scoring on BlackCaps.co.nz, and that's what I'm 'watching' now. That first game was tight, and I ended up sitting here compulsively refreshing to see if Amy Satterthwaite was going to get her fifty before the White Ferns won the game. She was stranded on 49*. I still don't know, though, why Abby Burrows only bowled seven overs when she took wickets and didn’t go for many.

Right now, the Ferns are 120/5 and Satterthwaite has just come out to join Haidee Tiffin, her captain. For those as are interested in that kind of thing, Tiffin has a blog at Cricinfo, along with a selection of other international players.

Women's cricket is caught in an awkward position. It can't get coverage because people don't watch it, and people don't watch it because it doesn't get coverage. For all the whining about the lack of coverage women's sport gets, when people turn up it gets televised – look at tennis and netball, because you can. People just don’t go to women's cricket matches.

Perhaps they need to sex it up a bit. Do a calendar. Adopt Australia's 'lesbians only' selection policy. Play in bikinis. Follow in the men's footsteps and use fielding as a strip-tease – something you can see here, here and here. Sprint in beige bodysuits. Something.

In the meantime, the Ferns and the Stars will be in Hamilton on the 6th and 8th, and at the Basin Reserve on the 12th. Imagine how they'd feel if someone actually turned up.

Meanwhile, if there are any of you out there who are, or have been, big romance novel readers, or moderate romance novel readers, drop me an email. I have a couple of questions for you. It's okay, it's just knowledge, bro.

Last week, Mills & Boon announced it was working with England's Rugby Football Union to produce a series of romance novels that would give the game "an air of sexiness, glitz and glamour".

She might have been assistant physio to the renowned All Black team for three months now, but it still sent a shiver down Megan's spine to watch them run out on to the field. There was something magic in the air, in the way the lights gleamed through the falling rain, making the rebuilt Eden Park shine in all its RMA-compliant magnificence.

Much as she'd fought it, much as she'd struggled for professionalism, her obsession showed no signs of sputtering out like a barbeque on the last dregs of the gas bottle. Even in the crowd and the noise, she knew exactly where he was. She could pick out his voice singing the National Anthem below all the others. Even from the sideline, she could make out every detail of the way the rain gathered on his storm-heavy brows and trickled off the end of nose.

Robert. He wasn't the most famous man on the team, or the best looking, but there was something about him that caught at her heart like a fishhook in a seagull's throat. Every time she was around him she found herself flushing and inarticulate, unable to stop herself imagining what it would be like to be crushed against that broadly-muscled chest, lost in his distinctive scent of sweat, liniment and Lynx.

A voice behind her said her name, and she turned to see the coach. He seemed grizzled and gruff, but she'd found he could be surprisingly tender and caring under the surface. Like Robert. Well, not just like Robert: the coach was too old to inspire the feelings Robert did. But she was sure Robert would be tender and caring under the surface if she could just get there…

Wait, he was saying something. "It’s nothing personal, Megan, he's just not going to notice. I'm pretty sure he plays for the other team."

She frowned. He must mean Canterbury. "Surely that doesn’t matter when he's playing for his country? Once he slithers into that tight black jersey, nobody cares what he does the rest of the time."

"Not in rugby, love. Not ever. It's our national passion. Can't let other feelings get in the way of that."

She just shook her head, distracted by the sight of Robert bringing up the back of the haka, displaying that passion, like his tongue, for everyone to see.

Five minutes into the game and he'd been caught in a ruck. Not his place, but one of the forwards had gone down. Someone had been needed, and he'd valiantly rushed in with no thought to his safety, or the effect of his lack of headgear on possible future underwear contracts.

The main physio had rushed to the aid of the fallen forward, and someone was making some kind of fuss about a stretcher or something, but Megan had eyes only for Robert. He got to his feet, hobbled a couple of steps and then fell, clutching his right leg. There was nobody else. It was down to her, and as she sprinted out onto the field, she could feel the hand of Destiny upon her.

She knelt beside her fallen warrior and passed him the water bottle. He obviously felt the heat between them just as much as she did: he could hardly meet her eyes. "Pulled a hammy, I think. Feels like."

"Let me look," she said softly, her firm strong fingers stroking his thigh, assessing his injury. She was trying so hard to keep it professional, but her heart was thumping like a punk drummer on P, and slow heat was spreading through her loins. She glanced up to see if he'd noticed, but he was spitting water onto the grass beside her. His thigh under her hands was hard and unyielding, like a bundle of pipes wrapped in hairy canvas.

She drew breath with difficulty. "I think it’s just a strain. If I give it a bit of a massage…"

She could feel his eyes on her now, even though she was staring at her work. His leg, his lovely firm legs and those beautifully-cut shorts…

His voice claimed her attention. "You look kind of familiar. Do I know you?"

"I'm Megan,” she said shakily. Oh god, he'd noticed her. "I've been with the team for a few months now."

"No, I've seen you somewhere else. Wait, weren't you outside my house? And you were there when we went to that club the other night. Your voice is familiar too. Are you the woman who's been ringing my house?”

She didn't know how to answer. He was staring at her, his dark eyes boring through into her soul.

Then they were interrupted, a flick on his shoulder from his captain. "Rob, you planning on joining us? Game's on and everything. Hey Megs."

She looked up, startled, into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, like the blue squares from a paint-box, and a warm, dimpled smile. "Mark. Hi."

He grinned right at her, lips full and pouting over his mouth-guard, and she felt a fire in her heart. "I need my boy back, Megs, think we can do that?"

"What, Robert? Yeah, sure, okay, he'll be fine."

"That's your magic fingers. Keep 'em warm for me will you Megs? I'll see you after the game."

And as she ran back to the sideline across the rain-soaked grass, Megan just knew this was going to be the best night of her life.

I like me a good philosophical debate, I do. Somehow I've managed to pick up some odd ideas, and I only discover how odd they are when I say something I think is obvious and everyone just stares at me. At other times, I'm completely bamboozled by something other people find so straight-forward they don't need to explain it.

Recently, one of my favourite blog-reads, Make Tea Not War, linked to a discussion at a Mom-blog site where women were debating a thorny issue: which is the harder job, being a mother, or being a wife. Even reading their comments, I was conscious of a hole in my knowledge that made me unable to even consider the issue.

I don't know what the 'job of a wife' is.

I know what it used to be. I know there are strong ideas about a married woman's role in other cultures – cultures that aren't mine. Here and now, though, what the hell is the job of a wife?

Whatever the job of a wife is, it must somehow be different from the job of a husband, and different from the 'job' of a single woman. It has to be different from the job of being a mother, because that's apparently what it’s in conflict with.

I know what the job of a parent is, and I can work out how 'mother' is different from 'father', as far as expectations go. I'm supposed to be more nurturing, possibly even a bit smothering. Dads are supposed to be more authoritarian, and also more fun. It doesn't quite work out that way in our house. I'm the disciplinarian, and also the person who says 'okay, off you go, let me know if you need an ambulance'.

Lately I've even become conscious of having a role as a daughter that's different from the role of a son. Last year our family took a trip to Hanmer to celebrate my mother's eightieth birthday. My job consisted of spending hours looking at holiday homes on line, then relaying information to my mother and brother (who live in the same city, not mine), then taking their feedback and starting all over again. It was a while before I realised why I was doing this, and not my brother, which would have shortened the process. In my family, things are always organised by women. That's determined by a simple, and hugely sexist, underlying assumption: men are a bit shit. A man couldn’t organise a lay on a poultry farm. If you want something done properly, you get a woman to do it. First it's the mother's job, then as the family ages it becomes the daughter's.

Being aware of that, I started to get alarmed. The job of a wife is tough enough for some women to say that it's harder than being a mother, and I don't even know what it is. If I don't know what it is, I can't be doing it right. It's probably not 'providing obscenity-laden commentary to the evening news'. Perhaps my partner is secretly thinking, 'well, she's okay, but man I wish I had a proper wife'. What to do?

I asked the internet. Google knows everything; you just have to work out how to get it to tell you. I learned that it used to be the job of a wife to get water from the well in the morning. I found people talking about it without defining it, like this:

The job of a wife and mother is to be a wife and mother.  Anything in addition to that must also be subservient to it.  There is no higher calling.  Moreover, I believe Paul's admonition should lead us to reject any notion of a wife and mother taking on the level of responsibility that Mrs. Palin is seeking. 

So it's obviously very important, and precludes becoming vice-president in a way that being corrupt and bat-fuck crazy seemingly doesn't. Not hugely helpful, though.

Hunter S. Thompson's widow Anita feels that "the job of a wife is to protect your husband when there are dark forces around, or when he is feeling dark and depressed". I'm not entirely sure what that means either, though it could indicate a use for my lightsabre and thigh-boots.

A woman discussing Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary’s Home-Making Major was more explicit:

Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary is a school founded on biblical principles, not the latest bunch of feminist hoo-ha. Titus 2:3-5 says, "Older women likewise are to…train the young women to love their husbands and children, to be self controlled, pure, working at home, kind, and submissive to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be reviled"

I'd never heard of the Book of Titus, but I'm betting it's one of Paul's. While I do work at home, I think the kind submissive self-controlled pure ship has sailed.

It did remind me of a friend of mine who went on a Women's Retreat with her church a couple of years ago. There she was taught that all conflict in a marriage is due to women being too uppity. The model of wifedom preached there was what I like to summarise in terms of Once Were Warriors: you keep your legs open and your mouth shut.

This isn't the tradition I was raised in, though. It's about as relevant to me as traditional Jewish or Muslim ideas of wifedom. It's like getting the water from the well: not something I've ever been expected to do.

I'm a bit dodgy on 'home-making' too. It's not construction, I know that. It sounds like housework. I did housework when I was single. I'm pretty sure the house would still need dusting if I lived alone.

The job of a wife must be something I have to do because I have a partner, that I wouldn't be expected to do if I didn't. I'm about all out of ideas, I just have one more lingering suspicion. And if it is sex? If the job of a wife is to put out? Shucky darn, that’s terrible. Now, what's the job of a husband again?

It's that time of year again, where after a blissful interlude of cricket, swimming, Wii and general lounging in the sun, it's time to go back to work. I've always had trouble defining work, because I'm aware that pretty much all the things I've put the most effort into I've done for free. Also I work in the same chair I play in. So as a work-from-home contractor, perhaps I mean going back to taking jobs. It's just a tiny bit depressing.

Most of the people I work for are wonderful. Perfectly reasonable. I like my job, and I'm certainly not in it for the money. Every now and then, though, I deal with someone who rubs me up the wrong way. I think it's because they're stubborn idiots who won't listen to reason, but it's possible I could be biased. In any case, the huge padded wrist-rest in front of my keyboard is to protect my forehead, not my wrists.

I'm a calm, reasonable, polite person – anybody who knows me well would certainly be too scared to tell you anything else – but sometimes I do wish I could be just a little more direct. Think of this as an exercise in blowing off steam so I can suppress another year's worth of screaming 'are you freaking kidding me?'. (All 'client-side' interaction is quoted almost verbatim.)

Client: And I'd like all the articles to be seven hundred words long.
Me: Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure I can cover the topic in about four hundred words.
Client: Why would you do that?
Me: Well, basically the shorter it is, the more people who'll read it. And the fewer pad words, the higher the concentration of your keywords.
Client: I'm paying for seven hundred words and I'll damn well get seven hundred words. Don't you try to back out of doing the work.
Me: You're the boss. Three hundred words of cabbage-level verbiage coming right up.

Client: And I want a 5% keyword density.
Me: That will make your copy read like gibbering idiocy, are you sure?
Client: Of course I'm sure. That's what I want.
Me: Well, it's just that human beings won’t read it. Five percent means your two three-word keyword phrases have to be one 'word' in twenty. And if you only want googlebots to read it, I'd suggest just typing your keywords out over and over again 'no TV and no beer make Homer something something' -style.
Client: I said five percent.
Me: You're the boss. I assume you want to purchase full copyright as well?
Client: Of course.
Me: Yes. Let's just leave my name right out of it.

Client: So, we want the whole manual laid out like this sample page.
Me: No you don't.
Client: Pardon?
Me: That sample page has text which is centre-justified. And orange. There are huge paragraphs of waste-words, and from here I can see about twenty unnecessary commas. There's not one list or bullet point. And did I mention it was orange? On black?
Client: But I'm quite good at technical writing myself, I just don't have the time to do this. And I did all the CSS myself.
Me: Yes, I can see that.
Client: …
Me: You're the boss. One unreadable Hallowe'en monstrosity coming right up. Let me just remove a large portion of my brain…

Client: I paid for 400 word articles. That one is only 398. I'm not paying until you get it up to the correct word length.
Me: Is there something wrong with the content?
Client: No, it reads fine. But it's short. I want what I asked for.
Me: You're the boss. Cabbage cabbage.
Client: What?
Me: You wanted two words. There they are. And here's my paypal account.

Frequently-Questioned Answers

Yes, yes I am. What was your first clue: the girl's name, the boobies, or the linguistic competency?

No, I'm sure I am. What about the lyrical description of Lara Croft's breasts I just gave you made you think I was male?

No, it's nothing personal. I'm from New Zealand, we all swear like that.

Yes thank you, I have found Jesus. He was behind the couch. Now it's my turn to hide.

I'm sorry, if you want to buy my integrity, you'll have to pay me a lot more than that.

No, see, I'm in a different time-zone. It's Wednesday night for you, but it's Thursday for me, so… No, you're right. The reason you commission work, go to sleep, and find it there when you wake up in the morning is that I'm an elf. Should you fail to leave me my gold, your cow will stop giving milk. Also I'll cut your brakes.